


To Everyone Who Will Shed a Tear at My Funeral

by thankspizzaman



Category: Original Work
Genre: Aftermath, Bullying, Death, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:05:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7564774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thankspizzaman/pseuds/thankspizzaman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I won't give you the comfort of not knowing; I want you to read this letter, read these words, and know it was your fault. I want you to live with the knowledge that you pushed me to this, that you have made me so fucking miserable until I only had one path left to follow, only one solution to the pain. I want you to live a long life, I want you to fall in love, and get married, and have children, and then grandchildren, and maybe even great grandchildren. I want you to a wonderful life, filled with all the joy and happiness that you stole from me... You'll think of finding my body or hearing of my death over the news, you'll think of wearing black and attending a funeral and hearing these words read to you for the first time, all while your best friend or your first child or your boss sings your praises and you'll shed a few tears. Everyone else will think it's because you are grateful to all the kind words but you and I will know better. You'll cry because you'll realize that nobody but you and I know the truth... The only person who has ever seen you for who you truly are is rotting away in the ground because of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Everyone Who Will Shed a Tear at My Funeral

To everyone who will shed a tear at my funeral,  
I don't know why I'm writing this. There's a part of me who thinks you don't deserve any explanation, don't deserve to have any peace. It's dark and evil, but I want you to walk around every day for as long as it takes you to forget me, wondering why I would do this, needing answers but only receiving a taunting note, a note that says "I hope you die wondering why." I'm vindictive and bitter, sue me.  
But, another part, a bigger part, wants to explain every last bit, wants to write down every shitty thing you have ever done to me, wants you to read your own words, your own actions, and realize you are to blame. I won't give you the comfort of not knowing; I want you to read this letter, read these words, and know it was your fault. I want you to live with the knowledge that you pushed me to this, that you have made me so fucking miserable until I only had one path left to follow, only one solution to the pain. I want you to live a long life, I want you to fall in love, and get married, and have children, and then grandchildren, and maybe even great grandchildren. I want you to a wonderful life, filled with all the joy and happiness that you stole from me. I want you to feel all the happiness that I haven't felt for a long time, I want you to be the best person your children and your friends and your coworkers have ever met, so that when they tell you to your face at your sixtieth birthday party about what a wonderful person you are, how caring, how kind you are, you'll think of me. You'll think of finding my body or hearing of my death over the news, you'll think of wearing black and attending a funeral and hearing these words read to you for the first time, all while your best friend or your first child or your boss sings your praises and you'll shed a few tears. Everyone else will think it's because you are grateful to all the kind words but you and I will know better. You'll cry because you'll realize that nobody but you and I know the truth, the truth about what a horrible person you are. The only person who has ever seen you for who you truly are is rotting away in the ground because of you.  
Because the truth is, while I was the one who put the gun to my head, you were the voice in my head, whispering about how I should do it because after all, nobody will miss me. It was you, with your words and your actions, that pushed me to buy the gun in the first place. Without you, the thought that I'm better off dead would never have even planted itself in my mind. So, thank you. Without you, I would be the one sitting in that chair at my sixtieth birthday party, it'd be me with the wonderful children and the kind boss and the tears running down my face in gratitude at the kind words being spoken in my honor. Instead, in my place, you're sitting there, tears running down your face in shame.  
Now, I know what you must be thinking, which one of us caused you this much pain? Is it my sister, my mother, my teacher, my friends, my classmates? So, I'll start at the beginning.  
It was you, Patrick, the boy in seventh grade, who asked me out as a joke and forgot to tell me about that fact. It was you who let me go days thinking you liked me, let me go days thinking we were dating, let me go days thinking someone could find me attractive before you let my friend know you were just fucking kidding. My friend. Not once did you think about how I would feel. Not once did I cross your mind, except to laugh at how dumb I was. How do you feel now? Are you still laughing?  
It was you, Nicholas, for calling me a cow in eighth grade to your friend as I passed you in the halls, thinking I couldn't hear you, and it was your friend, for laughing with you as you said it. It was you, thinking you were the shit, and you could constantly tease me with no repercussions. It was your girlfriend who, after that day in math class who witnessed you trying to get a hug from me and me refusing, started talking shit about me, saying shit like how I was so obnoxious and who did I think I was, for acting like I was better than you guys? Am I still an obnoxious cow to you guys?  
It was you, the people in my classes who will shed tears as they learn about my death through Facebook posts and news articles. It's real nice of you guys to care about me, now that I'm dead and all. I must have missed how much you guys cared as you ignored me in the halls and refused to talk to me at all, unless it was to laugh at me or spread rumors about me. Maybe I was just oblivious during high school, and all the lesbian rumors were just your way of showing me how much you cared about me, right?  
It was you, mom, with the funny way you showed how much you loved me. Constantly telling me I was too fat, telling me that no guy wants a girl who is overweight, that was just your way of saying I love you? Or maybe it was the way that you would mess up, and then blame it on me, telling me I may be book smart but I was stupid for life that should have cued me in on how much you cared. Oh, wait, maybe it was the way I would show you the hundred I got on my final and you asked if there were any bonus points I could have received that should've clued me in. No, wait, maybe it was the fact that I couldn't have male friends, because obviously, that meant I was fucking them, but at the same time, having only female friends meant I was a lesbian that meant you loved me. But, no, you were a good mother. You should be proud of how you treated me, like the time you told me that it wasn't your responsibility to help me through college if I wasn't smart enough to get a full scholarship, while simultaneously expecting financial aid when you became old and decrepit. Real solid parenting skills, there.  
It was you, Sara, who constantly made me feel like shit for not being a good enough sister while at the same time, completely forgetting about your own shortcomings. Like that time you acted like I tried to kill you when I called you a bitch, while conveniently forgetting how many times you told me to kill myself because nobody loves me before that point in time. You can't be blamed though, I know how unlikely it is that constantly telling someone to kill themselves could make them actually kill themselves. So, I don't fault you for thinking that you were just joking around, after all, I "don't have a backbone and thus, don't speak up for myself when something is bothering me." I mean, it's not like you consistently made fun of me for getting too emotional or being too sensitive whenever I cried during movies or anything, right? Oh, wait… you did. But, I should just learn to take a joke, though, because obviously, you never meant any harm. But, you can't be blamed. After all, I make you feel like shit whenever you tell me something, because I always use that as my trump card when we get in an argument and threaten to tell our parents, right? Oh, no, that's still you. Oh well, at least you're nice to me on my birthday (usually).  
It was you, the rest of my family, who never bothered to check in on me but who will show up to my funeral to show each other how much you guys cared about me. I rarely got a birthday call, or even a call in general to see how I was doing but you're all here at my funeral, crying about how young I was, and how much you loved me. I really felt all that love as you refused to talk to me and all the calls you screened and didn’t pick up.  
It's you, all of you, who are at this funeral, crying your eyes out because you cared so damn much about me. You, going on and on about how much you loved me and wondering why you never saw the warning signs, wondering why I would do something like this, that pushed me to this. You, with your tears and your love, suddenly showing up when I'm no longer around, after years of not being there, years of ignoring me, talking about how much you care.  
Go ahead, cry, grieve, reminisce in all your memories of me. Get comfort from each other, hug one another, offer your condolences. Then, look around the room during my funeral and realize it was every single one of you who put the nails in my coffin; you are all to blame for this. Every. Single. One. Of. You.  
And if any of you are surprised by this letter, by how vindictive and bitter it is… well, that's just further proof that none of you ever knew who I was until I did something to get your attention. None of you tried to get to know me, none of you ever cared for me until I died.  
And that is what I want you to remember, as you sit through a speech at your sixtieth birthday party about what a wonderful human being you are. The next time someone talks about how many people you have inspired with your beautiful personality, I want you to remember what you inspired me to do.  
XOXO,  
The Person in the Coffin

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was thinking of making this into a multi-chapter story and write about the aftermath in these people's lives after the letter is read the main character's funeral. Let me know what you guys think of this idea, or if you even like the story as it currently is. Any and all feedback is appreciated :)


End file.
